Five Minutes In James Potter's Head
by Akingdomofunicorns
Summary: In which James stares (what's new about that?), thinks (yes, it hurts) and doesn't know the meaning of macho (and doesn't really care at all). Oh, the wonders of the teenage mind.


Disclaimer: Everything belongs to my beloved Queen Rowling.

Reviews are welcomed. Flamers not so much but, well, if you can't resist the temptation... This was written yesterday night, while I was bored waiting for my friend to come home so we could go out partying. Beware James Potter's potty mouth, he swears like a five year old. So does Lily, I think. Oops?

* * *

**Five Minutes In James Potter's Head**

"Lily's head is ablaze," I say, and wait for the laughs that should follow that statement. I am hilarious, sometimes I even amaze myself, but apparently my mates don't think so, because Peter stares at me as if I've gone mad, Remus doesn't look up from his book and Sirius just throws a paper ball at my head without looking at me. They're pathetic, the lot of them, but I'm glad they haven't taken an interest to Lily, because there is no way I'd be able to compete with both Remus and Sirius. Peter I am not worried about, but Lily sometimes is so excentric that it would be so like her to fall head over heels for Wormy.

Seeing as my mates are stupid, I turn my attention back towards the object of my afections. Not that Lily is an object, she is anything but that. Note to self, don't ever think that again, I might say it outloud and take permanent residence at Pomfrey's.

She's sitting by the window, talking to Alice, one of the best beaters I've had the pleasure to meet (I wonder if Mrs. Longbottom is still trying to get her son to ask her out because they would make great babies), Mary MacDonald (Should I ask Sirius if her new haircut makes her look taller?) and Marlene McKinnon (must ask her about the hooking up over the summer with Sirius thing because I'm sure the wanker just made that up; I saw Mar making eyes at Cecily Jameswood not three days ago). She is sitting by the window, as I've said, looking like an angel. No, really, she does look like an angel. I am positive that there was a redheaded angel somewhere in the Big Leather Book. I think her name was Lilith? See, totally an angel, I tell you.

I've never quite figured out how her hair falls all thick and straight just a little past her shoulders and then curls inwards all softly. It's mesmerizing, because it's so red that I'm sure it should be able to burn my eyes if I stare at it for too long —it catches the light and it shines red and gold and orange, it's liquid and thick like treacle, like the caramel she sometimes puts in her coffee, and only God know why she drinks that; but for all that I have stared at her (at least thirty minutes everyday at breakfast, if I am lucky), my eyes are still intact, and my love grows ever deeper. Everyone thinks I love her eyes (and I do), green and bright and lovely, but it's her hair that makes me go mad, every strand of crimson red that falls off her head down her back. And her nose… God, don't get me started on her nose.

"You can stop staring now, Prongs, I'm sure you're creeping her out, mate," Sirius says and I swear to God the wanker hasn't even looked up from whatever it is he's doodling in that spare piece of parchement that's been sitting over there for the last five days.

"Sod off."

"Padfood is right, Prongs," says Remus and beside him Peter nods and furrows his brows at the book he is reading for some class or other, "she's bound to notice and she'll think you're some dirty stalker."

"Not stalker, Moony," Sirius says. Peter adds, "The word you're looking for is pervert," and I could kill them all. I should, in fact. Then they wouldn't cockblock me anymore. You have no idea how many times they have done just that in the seven years I've known them; yes, of course it wasn't cockblocking when we were only innocent firsties, but you know what I mean.

"I really, really can't stand you."

"Ooh, problems in Paradise, is it? Never thought I'd see the day when James Potter would say such awful things to his husbands."

"Shush, Evans."

"What are you, eight?"

"You're always so mean."

"Oh, I'm sorry, am I hurting your feelings?" she laughs. "Grow up, James. And don't go to bed early, you promised you'd help me with the detention slips."

I am about to say something, something witty and funny and worthy of James Potter, Marauder extraordinaire, when Sirius has to go and fuck it all up. As usual.

"Oi, James and Evans on a date!"

"Shut up, Padfood!" I say, because an angry Lily Evans is a scary Lily Evans, "it's not a date!"

God, am I blushing? I must be blushing. This is terrible! What will Lily think? No, scratch that —what is Lily thinking? I cannot be blushing in front of her; is this really happening?

"Oh, you're wrong, Potter," she says and I brace myself for the hexing that's about to happen (next week, here I come), "it is a date. Totally. So bring me something to eat, you twit. See you later, James."

She smacks her lips (ohmygodohmygodohmygod her lips) against my cheek and leaves in a swirl of red hair, flushed skin, dark robes and a wicked smile and I swear to God I am hallucinating. I shouldn't have eaten those eggs, I knew they were spoiled.

"Prongs? Prongs, are you all right? Jesus, is he fainting?"

That's the last thing I hear, Sirius' voice to compensate for Lily's kiss (and insanity, is she really going out with me?), before everything goes black.

Note to self: don't ever stop breathing. Breathing is important. If you stop, you faint, and that is so not macho, whatever that means. Which must be something silly, because I learned it from Sirius. You could have opened your head and died, and you cannot die before having snogged Lily Evans senseless.

Are those treacle tarts with honey I smell? Lily loves those, I must bring some tonight.


End file.
